Oh, Do You Suppose?
by electricsymphony
Summary: When Elijah first met Elena Petrova, he held strong to his conviction that no one—certainly not a naïve little girl—would cause a wedge between he and his brother. When Stefan met Elena Gilbert, he held strong to his conviction that his brother's betrothed would never reciprocate his dishonorable love for her. Turns out, convictions are only as strong as the men who assert them. AU


**Notes: **Hey guys! So, I'm really, super ridiculously excited to get started with this story, because it's been fishing around in my brain for a long time and I'm just so damn happy to see it finally done and get the ball rolling on this new alternate universe voyage that I plan to go on-I hope you'll go on it with me. ;)

In this universe, Elena Gilbert was born as the first doppelganger sacrifice that was banished to England and Katherine Pierce was born as the second doppelganger discovered by one of the Salvatore's in present-day (2009) Mystic Falls-making them Elena Petrova and Katherine Gilbert respectively. I will attempt to keep their personalities as close to the original character as possible even while switching their roles, but it'll be a challenge, so constructive criticism is always welcomed and appreciated. This prequel to the series will detail the beginning relationship dynamic between Elena, Stefan, Elijah, Klaus & Damon. After this is published, the main story-'Selective Oblivion'-will be posted in which a Salvatore brother comes across Katherine in 2009, and the story shall continue from there. For more info on the sequel to this, please see the end notes.

Just a warning: The dates for each section of this one-shot were very carefully selected, so I advise that you don't skim over them. Without the dates, it could be quite confusing as the timeline jumps around quite a bit.

Thanks for reading! :D

**Disclaimer: **The Vampire Diaries, its characters, plot lines and premise belong to LJ Smith, Kevin Williamson, Julie Plec, The CW, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. I do not own _anything _detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. The song lyrics depicted in this chapter come from the song 'Ghost in New York City' and belong to the band 'A Lion Named Roar', the writers of the song itself, and 2012 Deaf Eye Music. All rights reserved to respective parties.

* * *

**Oh, Do You Suppose?**

_There's a ghost in New York City,_

_that reminds her of her past._

_And a postcard sent from Brooklyn,_

_that she wished she didn't have._

* * *

**_April 4th, 1943_**

The postcard arrived to their temporary Manhattan dwelling on a dreary, foggy Tuesday over her morning tea. After convincing him to move to New York some four months ago, Elijah had spent less time with her in their 4th Avenue apartment than the daily postman—a nice fellow whose company and input on the newest theatre productions Elena far preferred to the monotony of the morning newspaper headlines and an empty, desolate apartment. She'd heard the rumors from gossipy old women in the building that she was having an affair, and yet, it didn't seem to disturb her in the slightest. In truth, she was all for letting the elderly harpies spread the news of her 'affair' if it kept them happy, satisfied and sedated. The last thing she and Elijah could afford right now was attention to their odd coupling, and if a rumor of an alleged affair was the worst attention that could be drawn to them, so be it. It was far less dangerous than the truth.

When Calvin—the postman—had delivered the postcard, she'd done her best to mask the fear and uncertainty on her face, and luckily, he seemed too busy staring at her half-opened robe to notice. She didn't _get _personal mail, _especially _addressed to her and definitely not if it wasn't the correspondence of one of Elijah's many secretive and ominous business partners.

This alone set her on edge, but she remained casual and cordial with Calvin for almost an hour as he engaged her in conversation about Friday Evening's Broadway opening of '**Oklahoma!**'. She did so to the best of her ability—she genuinely liked her conversations with Calvin, there was no falsity in those feelings, but there was an unmarked, unsettling postcard _addressed to her_ sitting on the coffee table in front of them, and she was very nearly twitching to get ahold of it.

The postcard was new, still glossy and polished, a traditional stock photo of the Brooklyn Bridge decorating the front. She hastily flipped the card over and mouthed the words to herself in a horrified whisper:

**Elena,**

**As you undoubtedly know, it's been a few centuries since we've talked face to face, but I trust my elder brother is taking good care of you—he's always been a great asset to me in that respect, cleaning up my messes whilst I'm otherwise engaged. This time it seems—ironic as it is—that I'm currently otherwise engaged cleaning up **_your _**messes. He's a charmer, the youngest Salvatore. Originally, I'd only planned on keeping him alive for a brief round of drinks, but he's proven a splendidly interesting companion. You sure do know how to pick them, sweetheart. I hope all is going well with you and Elijah in Manhattan, but I'm afraid I won't have the time to visit quite yet. **_Our_** boyfriend keeps me on my toes, it's like having a little child—you can't turn your back for a second or else he's sucking the life out of a poor, unlucky debutante. Oh, and I have been meaning to ask you for quite some time—are you still going by Gilbert, sweetheart? I just want to have my address book updated, I'm sure you understand.**

**Regards from Brooklyn,**

**Nik**

She immediately ripped the card in pieces, threw them into the charcoal fireplace and watched as they burned to a crisp with a simple toss of a lit match. As she watched the flames fold the shredded edges of the postcard and engulf them in an orange mist, she finally took a long, deep breath and looked around her empty apartment, glancing about in vigilant paranoia.

Stefan _and Klaus? _Not only was he with Klaus—the very outcome she'd tried so hard to save him from—but in _Brooklyn? _She hadn't been this close to him in eighty years—not since she had foolishly let her guard down and fallen in love with a boy who had never understood the true weight of his affections, since she had fallen prey to a dream dangerous enough to shatter lives.

_It was March of 1863, and she'd been reading an old, French book that had been sitting in her belongings untouched for a few decades in the sitting room of Jonathon's Estate when Stefan called on her one afternoon. They were close friends and had been for about a year now, but he was always so reserved and tense around her, especially when Damon was required to escort her places—her 'betrothed', at least according to Jonathon and Giuseppe, the ignorant fools. _

_She let him in graciously, thankful that her 'Uncle' had left the area for a few days—and they proceeded to stand awkwardly in her parlor foyer for a few minutes before she cleared her throat and asked if she could get him something. He dismissed the offer, his palms sweaty and his resolve shaky, gesturing them towards the seating area. He relayed to her the conversation he'd just come back from between he and Damon—Damon's ultimate relinquishing of her hand, and his blessing of a union between she and Stefan, despite the wishes of the Salvatore and Gilbert patriarchs._

_She sat very still for a moment after he concluded, uncertain of how to proceed. It had not escaped her that the youngest Salvatore wished for her affections despite the fact that his brother had it in custom (pretense). Stefan had possessed her mutual affections long before now, had _**always **_had it, but so naïve and young, he could hardly even fathom—but she had ignored it, and for what she told herself was a very good reason. Damon kept her grounded, kept her from losing sight of her goals, and she couldn't say the same if she got involved with Stefan—she knew how lost and distracted she could get in Stefan Salvatore, and neither was something she could afford to be, no matter how dearly she wished it so._

_The whispers of Originals folklore between the vampires in town were gradually increasing at an alarming rate, and Elena knew every day that her tenure as Elena Gilbert of Mystic Falls was coming to within a hair's breadth of closed. Stefan, however, had a life—a _**human **_one, inevitably—left to live, and more than enough prospects in a wife; he did not deserve the ramifications that her interference would cause. She would not ruin him—she had taken so many precautions to prevent such an outcome that Damon's_ _blatant_ _breach of their agreements had her confounded with anger and fear. _

"_Damon loves me, Stefan, as I love him and this is hardly appropriate—" she hurriedly tried to deflect—_

"_He told me the truth, Miss Elena; I would not have come here if I did not believe him. My brother is many things, but a liar he is not."_

"_The truth?" She echoed back, a feeling of nausea burrowing in the pit of her stomach. Why wasn't he running away? Why wasn't he afraid of her? He should be afraid; she _**needed **_him to be afraid, dammit. This—this had all the markings of a goddamned catastrophe. How could Damon have sold her out so readily? Why, when she had confided in him so many dangerous truths? _

"_You do not love him, nor does he love you—not in the sense of a true union, Miss Elena." He took a pause, fear and hesitancy present in the etchings of his frown. It looked as though he might refrain from continuing, but he added finally in a nervous whisper, "And I know of what you are. He—he explained it to me…"_

_Elena might've laughed under a different circumstance. Explained it? Who could reasonably explain the truths of vampirism to a seventeen-year-old boy? Surely not her, and definitely not Damon Salvatore. "It scares you—"_

"_It does not," he defended immediately. _

_She looked at him sadly, as though his fierce denial were a thing to pity—truthfully, she wished she could be that certain of anything, foolish or not. He had such a youthful spirit, something she'd both coveted and faked with equal measure for over three centuries._

"_It _**should," **_she amended with a grimace to her tone. "Stefan, you have not seen it, you've merely _**heard **_it; it is not the same, I cannot allow this."_

_His voice rose sharply, and it took her immediately off guard. Stefan was a quiet tempered boy; he hardly raised his voice to make a toast at dinner. "So my brother is worthy of your affection, but I fall short? He has told me that you hold me in high regard—have you misguided him? Do you reckon me a boy, then? Just a boy, not a man-" his tone was scathing now, so uncharacteristic of his usual manner. It broke her down to the very core to receive such a cold regard from him. "I suppose we'll simply write it off as a misunderstanding, then, Miss Gilbert. I'll show myself out—"_

"_Stefan, stop!" She hadn't meant to speak out in such a manner, and yet, could not bear another second of it. "It is not a misunderstanding—I do very much hold you in high esteem. It is for this reason that I must dismiss your request—"_

"_And accept my brother's hand instead?"_

_She stood up now, her frustration getting the best of her and his comments stinging deep. "Forget about Damon; I do not love Damon, I love you!"_

_He seemed startled by such an intense declaration, and stared back at her, wide-eyed and shocked stiff. After a few moments, he found his voice to whisper aloud, "Is that so?"_

"_I mean to say—"_

_His bright smile melted the words right off her tongue and he stood up to approach her. "You mean to say exactly as you've said." He brushed her hair behind her ear and pulled her closer to him—"Do not take them back. Please, Lord—don't take them back."_

"_Stefan—"_

"_If they're true, you won't take them back," he stated resolutely. His eyes were closed, shut tight in a silent prayer, as he stated again, "Take them back only if they're untrue."_

_When she finally spoke, her voice was raw with uncertain emotion. "They're _**dangerous, **_in ways you could never understand."_

"_Then tell me, Elena," he stated empathetically. "Tell me _**everything. **_Tell me everything Damon knows, and everything he doesn't. Tell me things no one knows, and so I will confide in you and so we'll be—just be. Allow us to be, can't you?" His eyes opened now, and he searched her face for an answer before he even asked the question. "Won't you?"_

She hastily snatched a folded napkin off the dining room table, dabbed her wet eyes with it and sat down in a plush, red chair in front of the fireplace, her mind stuck in a far away past that lingered on even now, ever persistent in the loop of her musings and dreams. A startled ring pierced through her thoughts and she flinched, staring at the telephone on her right. Picking it up slowly, she voiced only a half-hearted "Yes?" into the receiver.

"A phone call in from Paris for you, Mrs. Peterson. Shall I send it through?"

She took a deep breath, looked once more at the now disintegrated postcard in the fireplace and gave a murmur of affirmation. Within a few minutes, Elijah's voice rang through, sharp and tense. He did not bother with formalities—a clear first warning of trouble, since he always insisted on utmost politeness—but came straight to the point with a strained breath, "My brother is in New York."

She tried to make her gasp of surprise as believable as possible, and knew—_hoped_ to God with everything she had—that when it came to his brother, Elijah was anything but on point. "You don't say?"

* * *

_Drawn behind her ears,_

_she wears a rose from prior years._

_One more regret to set in stone,_

_the fear she'd always be alone out there._

* * *

**_December 15th, 1952_**

Sensing the need for a slightly more 'under-the-radar' existence than their previously luxurious dwellings, their apartment in the Southwest end of London was decidedly more _modest _than often sat well with Elijah. He personified the luxurious lifestyle—a trait, according to Elena's many insistences, caused by both his Libra astrology as well as his fetish for expensive, tailor-made suits—and thus had trouble living by such plebian means. Elena, on the other hand, embraced the change of pace. They had loud Armenian neighbors who shouted countless hoots and hollers of what sounded like foreign profanities at all hours of the night, and the walls separating them were as paper-thin as Elijah's increasing irritability.

It was not until an unbearably hot evening in July after four months of residing there—reading separate books, both spread out together on the same small, living room love-seat, hot breaths mingling and limbs intertwined in an expertly complicated maneuver—did Elijah confide in Elena that he could speak Armenian, and could very well understand their neighbor's disputes. Elena nestled her cheek into the crook of his neck and did not ask for a translation—she knew Elijah well enough to know he would detest the need to relay it to her.

One bitter, cold evening in a desolate December, Elena stood dressed in her finest gussied-up attire, pursed in an undeniably discontent stance, arms folded over her chest and eyes narrowed as she surveyed the plain, white shutter doors leading into her cramped bedroom closet. She was on her way to meet Elijah in the lobby of a fancy hotel a fair few blocks away, and after a good fifteen minutes of internal contention, she finally moved to open it, inspecting its contents with a no more joyful expression than she'd been staring down the door.

Poised between a box of Louis Vuitton classic men's loafers and an old, unused purse that Elena hadn't touched in over a decade was a large, tin can with extensive etchings decorating the front in all kinds of various patterns and designs. She pulled it out and popped the lid, revealing what appeared to be hundreds of individual, ribbon-decorated 'Bon Silene' roses.

She stared at them for a moment, not picking any out of the tin, her expression indicative that she was afraid to touch them. She closed the lid with harder force than intended, replaced it in exactly the same position she'd found it, reached for a bright magenta scarf that perfectly accented her light blue evening dress and swung it around her neck, snatching her overcoat off its nearby hanger as she left.

Within twenty short minutes and a £6 taxi fare, she found herself gazing up at a ritzy hotel, escorted inside by a shady looking doorman that she wouldn't trust with her first name, let alone her coat. She kept it twisted tightly around herself upon entering, claiming a chill from the winter breeze, and he stalked away, entirely disaffected.

She spotted Elijah across the room, conversing with some tall, elderly, ash-white haired man with a bushy mustache and an eye monocle, looking so remarkably like a cartoon caricature that it wouldn't surprise her if he'd stepped straight out of a television programme. Elijah was dressed in his customary grey three-piece suit, vest open and cuffs drawn back to his wrists. As he caught her eye, he smiled a boastful beam of affectionate intent and strode over to her immediately, causing the elderly gentleman to turn his head in her direction as well.

Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced one single 'Bon Silene' rose, tied and twisted down the stem with an elaborate red ribbon. Brushing a lose curl of hair from her face, he tucked the flower right behind her ear and stepped back to admire the addition. "Perfect," he breathed out in admiration, his boastful smile now one of more subdued warmth.

"As always," she commented wryly, a smile bright on her lips that may have been genuine or otherwise an outstanding performance of authenticity as she took his proffered hand so he could twirl her around.

"Do you like it?" He asked as he led her to a table.

"I _always _like it; every single one—a rose for every occasion." She laughed with a hint of irony that didn't seem the least bit malicious but failed to mask the underlying acidic bite bubbling just under the surface. "You certainly take the concept to a rather literal meaning. It's enviable, I suppose—your determination to find a 'Bon Silene' _every single year._"

"It reminds me of you," he admitted wistfully, and she gave the appropriate half-smile of appreciation at the compliment.

"How so?" She pondered more to herself than to him. He tilted his head in playful inquisition, as though analyzing her, but she abruptly grabbed his hand and stood up before he could elaborate. "May I have the pleasure of this dance, Mr. Colbert?"

His eyes shined up at her, so full of the love, admiration and that inexplicable awe always reflected back to her in those rare moments of his raw, bare devotion. In truth, it made her stomach churn uncomfortably.

As they danced to a slow, low piano tune—oblivious to the transcendent allure that surrounded them, to the mixed jumble of hushed questions, awe-stricken wonderment and a definitive, nearly tangible, jealousy—that resounded all through the hall, she buried her cheek in the crook of his neck—her favorite position, he knew intimately. One of a sought but ever still unsatisfied comfort, perhaps?

He lifted her chin to meet his eyes, and whispered blunt and determined, "Do you really like the flower?"

"Do I lie to you often?" She asked, still buried deep enough in his embrace to smell his expensive cologne.

"Not _often, _I admit. Sparingly, if much." The curve of his lip indicated that he was either deeply amused by his next thought or else deeply perturbed by it—possibly both. His voice, even lower and more intimate this time, whispered against her cheek, "You must admit, your record of honesty with me is hardly spotless, my dear."

"As is yours," she protested back. Choosing her next words carefully, she decided upon, "Bestowing on to me a rose every year for our coupling does a great happiness to you, and your happiness is mine, so therefore, I am simply elated by the gift."

He laughed aloud, and twirled her off spinning, only to return to his arms moments later. Regardless of her internal protests to the contrary, she couldn't deny that the warmth of his embrace had become a reluctant comfort amongst all the uncertainty that had painted itself into the landscape of her life.

"Elena, I love you," he whispered suddenly into the dark curls of her hair, momentarily swept before her face so he couldn't see her reaction. He could _feel _the tensing of her muscles at the proclamation, however, and drew back an inch or so. "Do you doubt me? Shouldn't you be well aware of my affections by now?"

_But what I need to know is…_

A terrible question lodged itself in the back of his throat, a bitter and harsh burn more acidic than vinegar, so alike to the whipping of cold air that danced about the rooftops outside. "Do you not return the sentiment?"

_Does she love me?_

_Oh, do you suppose that she could love me?_

_Oh, I need to know._

Elena did not look him in the eye, but instead lifted her head off his chest and questioned, "A hundred flowers, I expect it'll accumulate to. No?" Her inquisitive face coupled with such harsh words stung him deep and he turned her around, so her back was pressed against his chest.

He whispered, a scoff held back on his lips but a gradual nod of his head instead—a resigned if not resented agreement, "A hundred years."

"That was _your_ agreement," she pointed out callously.

"You're being terribly cruel in the face of my affections," he accused, only managing a half-hearted vexation.

She stopped dancing to the tempo abruptly, turned to face him, enraged by his rampant hypocrisy, a scowl on her face and a frown on her lips as she declared, "Well then, I must've learned from the best."

_Does she love me?_

_If she'd only let him go then she could love me,_

_I know that she could love me…_

Five hours later, at the dawn of nearly 2 o ' clock in the morning, Elena stood in front of that very same closet door, holding the fresh, potent, delicate rose in her hands, and instead of crushing it as every fiber of her being wanted to, she placed it neatly at the top of the tin can with all the others.

Not even sparing a glance towards the living area through a half-opened door where Elijah was visible pouring himself a strong nightcap, she pulled a photo from her coat pocket—the one of her long-estranged love, the one of that heart-warming smile, vulnerable, tender heart and innocent charm; the one of a sandy-haired, optimistic teenager long dead to her reality but forever persistent in her dreams. And for a brief moment, she allowed one sole tear to drip from her cheek onto the antique, faded and crinkled paper, dissolving immediately and vanishing as if it were never there. She set the photo back in her coat, hung the coat up on its respective hook, dressed in her nightclothes and climbed into bed.

When Elijah joined her twenty minutes later, she once again buried her cheek into the crook of his neck, slightly more stiff than usual, as if broadcasting an inaudible question to her companion. To his credit, Elijah answered gallantly and swept his arms around her small frame, pressing her closer to him, and didn't voice so much as a question when he felt her wet tears—slick, hot and raw with despair against his ice-cold skin.

* * *

_There's a photo in her pocket—_

_of a story left untold;_

_and the kiss she made a wish for,_

_is the lie that let her go._

* * *

**_November 11th, 1864_**

She hadn't been by the Salvatore's Estate for three weeks now and she knew eventually one of them would come banging down her door. To her surprise, it wasn't Stefan, but rather Damon who barged into her dressing quarters one night while Jonathon was engaged at a Town Meeting. His eyes were worn and tired, as if he hadn't been sleeping for months, and his hair disheveled from the wind outside.

"You're leaving," he stated as he surveyed the small luggage bag at her feet, small enough to fit maybe only a few books and an overcoat—nowhere near enough to fit even a fourth the contents of a woman's closet, and anyone who didn't know her as well as Damon did wouldn't have picked up on this small but revealing tell.

"You're surprised?" She asked rhetorically and got up from her bed to close the door behind him.

He gaped at this insinuation, surprise and disappointment written all over his face. "Dammit Elena, _of course _I'm surprised—I thought we were past this, I thought—"

"Thought what?" She asked, resolute and stubborn with her arms crossed defiantly over her chest. "That I'd forget about how dangerous it was for me to stay just because—"

He slammed her luggage bag closed with his foot and cornered her against the wall, completely unafraid to contest a vampire. He'd never viewed Elena as a danger to him, not once, and he wasn't about to start now.

Elena stayed stiff and immobile against his chest, allowing him to yield this power over her. "You know why I'm leaving, don't patronize me as you would a child—"

Damon's smug smirk made her hands twitch in anger for want to smack it right off his face, teach him a good lesson about who was really in control here. "Oh please do enlighten me, Elena. Why are you leaving, then?"

"The town—"

"Hardly even suspects you," Damon interrupted lazily; "They're all convinced—Jonathon included, for god sakes—that you're his niece, and you could do no harm in the eyes of any one of them, Father too. I'll bet you could go right up and try to bite any one of them and they'd write it off as a trick of the light."

She gave him a pointed glare that very well indicated what she thought of his wry commentary. Fists clenched at her sides, she started again, "Stefan—"

"Is still all rosy-eyed in love with you as he was on day one, as are you with him, so don't try to feed me that—"

"Klaus!" She shouted at him, her whole body shaking and the veins under her eyes tickling her cheeks, her eyes red with white-hot anger. He immediately took a step away from her—not out of fear, really, but rather out of awe and confusion. Elena was so rigidly in control of herself all the time that the only time he'd ever seen her vampire visage was the one time in three years that he'd asked—and she took a deep breath, her face returning to normal, but still far paler than her normal shade.

He didn't want to ask, not after her reaction, but he couldn't stop the words from flowing straight out of his mouth—"Who is Klaus?" His voice was shaky, trembling with fear and uncertainty.

Elena frowned, turned back to her wall mirror to make sure all evidence of her outbreak was hidden and muttered softly, dejectedly—hollow and defeated—as one would announce an irreversible, inevitable evil—"I _never _want you to know."

"You've said before that someone was—is—chasing you… is it Klaus? What is he chasing you for? 'Lena, you don't have t—"

"Damon," she interrupted forcefully, his voice lulling into a quiet mumble, "Listen to me now; honestly _listen_**—**because I won't repeat myself. You trust me, you know me and you know I wouldn't be doing this unless it was for a good reason." She paused for a moment, but he didn't offer an affirmation. "Don't you?"

"Yes, but what does that—"

"I need you to promise me that you won't come looking after me—that you won't go searching after Klaus. I need your promise to trust me—no matter _what _I do, know that it is only for your and Stefan's own good. Damon, please—"

He surveyed her with furrowed brows and an uncertain frown. "You ask an awful lot of me, Elena."

"I ask for your trust, that is all," she declared empathetically; "Can you give me that? Because if you cannot, I'll have to kill you. It's a matter of life and death here, Damon—I can't have your loyalties wavering. I need them fully or I need them not at all."

His face paled considerably at her tone of voice—she was always such a fascinating contradiction of her species; gentle, yet aggressive; modest, yet persuasive. He could never predict her next move, but perhaps that was what drew him to her in the first place. But _this_**—**he had never witnessed such a chilling threat from her before, never one that it genuinely seemed she might follow through with.

"You have my trust, you know this; but I disagree with what your doing—it will destroy Stefan, are you willing to take that risk?"

She responded bitterly, "Better off destroyed by me than by Klaus, Damon. Trust me, Klaus will destroy him—both of you—in the most sickening ways you could hardly even imagine for so much as _speaking_ to me. I'm protecting you, and you just have to let me. Will you do as I say, no matter how much you disagree with it? It's the only way either of you will make it past him alive," she lamented sadly.

"For a price," Damon stated decisively and Elena looked up at him, shock written all over her face.

"A price?"

"I want what I've always wanted from you, Elena—an out from this life. I want you to turn me, and I'll do _everything _you ask of me and more. Grant me this wish, and I'll grant you my eternal servitude in exchange. Anything you want, for one simple gift in return."

"Eternity is not a gift, Damon—"

"This is my price, Elena, and I will not settle. You want my help? You'll grant me as I please, and I'll give you anything—I'll _owe_ you anything**.**"

Weighing the options, neither seemed like a very smart choice. If she denied Damon, both of them could end up no more than worm food for Klaus' ravenous hunger. Yet, turning him seemed an equally questionable alternative. Who knows what sort of chain reaction that could cause, and Damon—bless his enthusiastic and optimistic heart, certainly—but who could reasonably bestow something like vampirism on such a volatile risk as Damon Salvatore? It would be the most impulsive decision she'd ever make, and she simply didn't _do _impulsive.

Somehow, when it came to these two boys—men, they were upheld as, but to her, boys, always boys, naïve and young and eager to explore, to fail, to live—the rules she survived by seemed to fade faster than quicksand into abstraction. She slowly nodded, as if unsure of her decision still, but the gleam of intrigue in his eyes definitely considered the matter resolved. "Say it, Damon; I want your word."

"I promise not to follow you. I promise not to search out Klaus. I will do whatever you want of me, regardless of how much I disagree with it."

Elena paused, staring down at her wrist and avoiding Damon's eye. "Promise me that you will never turn Stefan. You'll let him live out his human life, and die as he naturally should."

Damon stared at her in confusion, affronted by the additional condition. "I promise to never turn Stefan," he finally said with a twinge of uncertainty.

Reluctantly, she bit into the veins of her left wrist and held it out for him as an offering. He looked down at it hesitantly, as though the conviction he'd been so certain of only moments ago was wavering with the weight of its reality. He took a lick of the blood on her wrist and closed his eyes briefly, swirling the deliciously sweet liquid in his mouth as if searching for a suitable adjective to describe it with.

The wound began to heal by itself, so Damon bit it with his blunt human teeth and tore it open just that tiny bit more, and took another substantial gulp of the tangy red substance. Elena hissed instinctually in reaction, and pulled him off, careful to clot the blood with a handkerchief before it could spill anywhere. Offering the handkerchief to Damon now, he wiped the excess blood from the edges of his mouth and looked up at her in confusion and awe.

"You have twenty-four hours. This is a one-time offer, Damon, and you ought to ponder your decision carefully. You don't _have _to go through with it. Consider your options, Damon—I _can't _be there for you to teach you, you'll have to do that all by yourself should you choose."

"I do—I've known what I wanted since the moment I found out about you. I've served in battle, Elena; I'm not scared of being a vampire. I can handle it."

So young, so eager—so certain. "I hope you can," she whispered truthfully.

"Now," she spared a glance towards the slightly ajar bedroom door and smiled sadly; "As the first condition of our agreement—"

Elena took the handkerchief from Damon's hands, and, bewildering him entirely, she took his face in her hands and kissed him—resolute, determined and purposeful—with all the intent she could muster, and he couldn't even so much as move his lips in response. It didn't matter much, however, because at that moment the door swung open and Stefan stood in frozen horror. His face was pale, his hands nearly shaking in anger and confusion. "Stefan," Elena breathed out in a perfect imitation of a lover caught unfaithful, and Stefan's face reflected all she knew that it would. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. Every part of her wanted to screech on the breaks, put this charade to an end, convince him that she was wrong and she didn't have to push him away after all.

The concept was easy enough—trick Stefan into thinking that she held feelings for Damon all along, and she could save him the heartache of searching for her after she 'died'. She wouldn't let him waste his life pining after her, so she was cutting him loose before that could happen. Betray him—or pretend to—and he'd hate her instead of lose her. The former was the better logical option; hate would fade, especially if he thought her to be dead. But the loss of one you loved—that could drive even the most rational men to do the most insane things.

Yes, the concept was entirely straightforward. But the execution—his face… she couldn't breathe.

He turned around sharply, unable to look at either of them, and hurriedly left the room, with Damon giving her the most incredulous look she'd ever been on the receiving end of. She and Damon—despite being betrothed, and despite their public charade of a relationship—had never actually been even remotely intimate before, save for a brief chaste kiss on the cheek in the company of Giuseppe and John.

"I'm going to find him," Damon asserted with finality and the second he moved from her grasp, she grabbed his wrist and kept him from leaving.

Elena took a deep breath, trying to rid her mind of Stefan's horrified face and remember why she was doing this. _Resolve. _She straightened her shoulders, and addressed Damon with the steadiest voice she could manage. "We've already established trust, no?"

He raised his eyebrows in disgust. He knew Elena was perfectly capable of being as manipulative as she so chose, but he was starting to regret this… "Elena, please—don't do this right now. I _have _to explain…"

"Do you love your brother, Damon?"

Damon furrowed his brows as if he was offended by the question. "Of course I do, what kind of question is that?"

Elena sympathized with her best friend—he wanted to save Stefan the heartache, and he didn't understand that heartache was the only alternative that kept him away from a whole new world of torture. She touched his shoulder gently, consoling and demanding all at the same time—"This is the best thing for him, Damon. I know you don't see that now. You'll see it one day, I promise that you will… that day just isn't today."

* * *

_Her eyes hold back the moment,_

_from the day that haunts her past._

_When his words became a weapon_

_that would fight against the only hope she had._

* * *

**_April 28th, 1961_**

She watches him a lot. She watches him at business meetings, through concealed slits in doorways when he thinks he's alone, and when she's wide awake with relentless thoughts of an escape from this imprisonment and he's sleeping soundly on his back, so oblivious—so unguarded, with a content smile sculpted by angels and a soul a thousand years older than the ones he blends with.

He doesn't look so intimidating when he sleeps. She knows this from endless nights of staring at him—assessing his sleeping form. She doesn't sleep—_hasn't_ slept—in almost a hundred years, and although she doesn't biologically _need_ the reprieve, she wishes she could fake it like Elijah does. She wishes her mind would relent for just a moment—would let her drift off into oblivion just for a _moment._

She's never that lucky.

Part of her thinks she has never deserved to be that lucky.

She can see it in his eyes, and he can see it in hers. They're drawing closer to it every day, and they're both on edge. They're both afraid to ask the question on the tip of their tongues. Elijah doesn't dare pry for her plans, and she doesn't dare voice her concerns in return.

3 years, 6 months and 15 days.

She's positive that he's counting them down too.

She's positive that he's been counting them down from the very first day.

She knows that she certainly has.

* * *

_**November 12th, 1864**_

* * *

The horrified gasp that escapes her lips as the bullet cuts through the cold frost is muffled by the reverberating of a shotgun. She hasn't felt like this in _years—_hasn't felt so much pure rage encased in her small body as she watches Damon fall to the ice cold ground, a stolen last breath on his lips before they seal tight, dead.

Giuseppe has a twisted grin on his face as he stalks towards Elena, the bayonet of his gun aimed right at her face. She's too frozen shocked to move, disgusted by the mere concept that this bastard would shoot his own son. His blatant betrayal reminds her somehow of her own father, and this only fuels her rage, causing the veins underneath her eyes to tickle her cheeks, her whole body hot with the uncontrollable urge to maim his every last limb into specks of dirt and dust.

"_Elena Gilbert—_consider me surprised. The niece of Jonathon Gilbert, or… you can't be, can you? Tell me, heathen, how did you manage to pull _that _off?"

Elena shrugged, her dark eyes red and her fists clenched at her sides. "A lady never compels and tells, Mr. Salvatore."

His bitter laughter is cut short, ripped straight from his throat as his head goes flying off his body to land at Elena's feet. A stream of his blood decorates her lips as it splatters everywhere, and it takes all of her willpower not to devour every ounce of his delicious life essence. Feeding in Mystic Falls for the past three years has been anything but enjoyable—mostly unsatisfying animals to ensure the longevity of her cover.

Instead, she slowly looks up, knowing—_fearing_—exactly what she's going to see. Elijah stands, his teeth sharp and grinning, a predatory smile, looking down at her with curious amusement while Giuseppe's severed body falls to the ground beside him.

He leaves it unceremoniously and walks towards Elena, ever calm and composed as always, even after ripping a man's head straight off his shoulders—always unnervingly collected.

It's all she can do not to physically shake as he assesses her. "As beautiful as ever, Miss Petrova," he whispers as he hovers over her. "And of course, as disobedient as ever, but that's to be expected, isn't it—"

"Shall we talk?" He proffers his hand for her to take, and she knows it's not a question.

She rips her hand from his grasp, a snarl held back on her lips as she declares, "And why would I agree to that?"

He motions to the slumped figure leaned against a darkly shaded tree a few feet from them, and her heart leaps in fear. Stefan is lying motionless, his legs sprawled out in awkward angles, but otherwise, seemingly unharmed. Out of sheer instinct, she ran towards him and tried to slap his cheeks for a response—_nothing. _

"You, you didn't…" she whispered in horror.

"He's not _dead_, Elena—merely unconscious." Elijah rolled up the cuffs of his sleeves, unconcerned, and continued. "I had one of my men knock the wind out of him; he'll be out of sorts for a few hours, but he'll be fine…" and then he cut off with a sinister smile, "As long as you agree to a few terms and demands I have of you, that is."

"Never," she spat back at him and stood up, ready to fight any onslaught of attacks he thought he could land on her.

Elijah tsked in disapproval, looking down at Stefan with a smug smile. "You'd really contest _me _for the livelihood of a _human?" _He laughed, high and condescending, a sharp jab to her stomach. "I must change my initial impression—you certainly have changed. You're far more foolish now."

"I love him," she told him resolutely, still not straying her gaze from Stefan, standing over him protectively.

Elijah raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. "As I said—_foolish."_

"If loving a human qualifies as foolish, I must've learnt such behavior from _you."_

If her words had affected him in the slightest, he didn't show it. His face was so stoic and unemotional that she could feel the cold chill of his gaze on the back of her neck. She always knew Elijah was capable of a very profound darkness that he often kept hidden, but she wasn't accustomed to it being so obviously directed at her.

"No matter, it simply makes it all the more interesting." He smiled at Stefan's unconscious form and walked close enough to trace his fingers down the curve of her hips, which immediately caused her to flinch in reaction. "He'll be far more useful as a bargaining chip than I'd imagined."

"Please, Elijah—you've found me. I'm the one you want, the one you've _always _wanted. Don't hurt him and I'll come with you willingly, on my honor."

"On your honor?" He repeated, an inquisitive smile on his lips.

"Yes."

"Then let's strike a bargain, Elena." He cupped his hands around her face and forced her to look him in the eye, his cold resolve melting into a sad smile. "Despite what you may think, I don't want to kill you. I don't want to torture you—I hardly think I could stomach it. You know that I love you… don't you?"

"I'm aware," she said slowly, unsure and unnerved at where this was headed.

He stroked her cheek gently, and did not let her turn to view Stefan as he spoke his words. "You love this man enough to give up your life for him?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

"I will not ask that of you," he shook his head; "I am not my brother, Elena. You'd do well to remember that."

He released her and she stepped back, surveying him with a puzzled frown. "Why must you speak in riddles? What is that you want, Elijah?"

"A hundred years, Elena. That's all I ask for. I want a hundred years of companionship—loyal, devoted, honest—to show you that I _know_ you can love me. The human boy that you love will live out his human years undisturbed by supernatural presence, exactly as you've wished it. If you choose to leave me after that time span, that is entirely your choice. I will not hunt you down, and I will leave you to live your life in any way you choose to live it. You give me a hundred years of your true devotion, and the boy will never be harmed. On my honor."

Elena couldn't even look at him. All she ever wanted was Stefan to be safe from all the madness that she brought into his life, Elijah was right.

Slowly, she nodded. "On one condition—you leave me with him for three hours, and then I'll go with you. I want to say goodbye. I'll compel away his memory of it afterwards."

"On your honor?" Elijah asked, his voice strong and unrelenting.

"On my honor," Elena repeated dejectedly.

"I'll be waiting," he said and walked off into the brush so she couldn't see him anymore. She knew he was watching, but her focus was too concerned with Stefan to care. It didn't take as long as she thought for him to regain consciousness, and he looked up at her aghast in horror.

"Damon—" he sputtered in panic, "I saw Father… he killed him…"

"Stefan," Elena whispered soothingly, trying to stop him from moving out of her grasp. "Listen to me carefully, please. We don't have long. I love you; I always have, more than I've ever loved anyone—even before you gathered the courage to confront me about it. Never forget that. What you saw yesterday between Damon and I was my attempt to keep you out of this mess, and well… this is my follow-through."

"Elena, what happened? Are you… are you okay? Where—"

It was a teary-eyed compulsion, but adequate enough regardless. "You'll forget that you ever knew me. You'll forget that you ever loved me. If anyone mentions me, it won't register any sense of familiarity in you. You'll live the human life you always deserved, and you won't be burdened by the memory of my love. You'll move on, and you'll forget about me. Your brother died defending you—always remember him the way you know he deserves to be remembered."

And with that, she watched as his pupils contracted and dilated in response to the compulsion, as his face became a blank slate ready to embark on the life he was always meant for—the one she was never meant to be a part of.

* * *

**_April 28th, 1961_**

* * *

Sometimes, when she watches him sleep, she wants to curl up in his arms and fall into a restful sleep—just for a few minutes she wants to forget all the cruelty he's forced on her and truly let herself love him. Other times, like this one, she'd rather just pound her fists into his face until his visible scars are half as reminiscent as her emotional ones.

She gets up and pours herself a strong nightcap from Elijah's whiskey collection. She thinks she might feel his eyes following her into the living room, but she resolves to ignore it.

* * *

_But what I need to know is…_

_Does she love me?_

_How do suppose that could she love me?_

_Oh, I need to know._

_Does she love me?_

_If she'd only let him go…_

* * *

_**September 2nd,**_** 1933**

He watches her a lot. He watches her through busy crowds walking down Fifth Avenue, through frosted bar windows and from a table shrouded in shadows in a crowded restaurant. Sometimes, he loses himself in imagining that it's him beside her and not _Elijah—_even in the confines of his mind, the name comes out like a growled hiss—and that's it's _him_ who gets to touch her neck like that. He imagines that it's _him_ who gets to kiss her whenever he so chooses. The possessive, territorial monster inside of him imagines taking a chainsaw to Elijah's head and intertwining his bloodstained fingers with hers over the bastard's rotting corpse.

Instead, he knocks back a shot of something strong enough to make him choke and watches as Elijah touches her thigh under the table, and he smiles at her indistinct but visible flinch. Maybe he imagines it. Perhaps he simply wants to believe that she doesn't love Elijah—can't stomach the idea that perhaps she honestly _does_—because he remembers her words. He can't forget them, they echo mercilessly inside his head every hour of every day.

'_I love you; I always have, more than I've ever loved anyone—even before you gathered the courage to confront me about it. Never forget that.'_

Klaus touches his shoulder and he's immediately yanked back to reality—back to the scorching hell of a reality where Klaus is his only confidante and Elena Gilbert belongs to someone else.

He and Klaus fuck and kill a girl together that night who smells of lavender and cinnamon—Stefan's choice, and Klaus doesn't comment on the coincidence. Klaus knows that it's no coincidence, and Stefan isn't naïve enough to think he could delude Klaus into thinking that it is.

Klaus falls asleep within minutes, content and fully sated on top of the dead girl without a care in the world.

Stefan can still hear Elena's voice whispering declarations of love in his ears, just like every other night. Her voice is too loud to find any sleep tonight, just like every other night.

Sometimes, he hates her. Sometimes, he hates himself.

The tides of his love for her never waver though, even in those moments of hatred. He is still as achingly in love with her as he was the very first day he saw her.

And just like every other night, the insuppressible monster buried inside of him maliciously hopes that she knows how much her plan to 'protect' him from this world has failed miserably, and he hopes she suffers from that realization.

And just like every other night, he sits wide-awake in an arm chair by the fireplace, wondering whether in his eighty-six years of life and pseudo-life he's ever known what it means to love someone, or whether he's just been chasing a schoolboy dream that he can never seem to shake off.

* * *

_**November 12th, 1964**_

_Once again my same routine,_

_I go back to grab our things;_

_for the night had drawn us out into the cold._

_But pressed inside her winter coat,_

_I found a letter that she wrote._

_Could her words tell me the things I need to know?_

* * *

It was a record-breakingly cold November that year, and Elijah thinks the weather is quite apropos for _this_ day in particular. He knows that she's left even before he enters the apartment to find her absence. What he didn't expect, however, was a very visible note sticking out of her winter coat, still untouched on its hanger and he finds that his hands are shaking as he reads through it.

_Elijah,_

_A hundred years is a very long time to fall in love. Five hundred years is far too long of a time to be alive, and yet, here I am. A thousand years, and yet here you are. Many a time over these hundred years have you asked me if I reciprocate the love you hold for me, and in all honesty, I never thought you deserved the truth. You stole a pure and honest love from me when I was at my most vulnerable, and I've spent many years hating you for it. You once told me that I ought to remember that you aren't your brother. Elijah, you could never be Klaus. Your intentions are far purer than his will ever be, and even after all you've done and all you've forced on me, I do not consider you an evil man._

_You stole Stefan's love from me—forced me to bend to your will and to forget that he ever existed, and when I learned of his turning and his subsequent history with Klaus, you forbade me from fixing it. After a hundred years paid of my debt to you, I have every intention of fixing it now. I know, that as a man of your word, you will not follow me. You owe me that much._

_I knew Klaus was a hot-heated, foolish and barbaric monster from the day I met him. I've known you a long time, Elijah, and I can say that not once before that day in 1864 did I think of you as possessing any of those qualities. _

_However, I must now admit the truth I've kept from you for such a long time. If you _**ever **_thought I didn't love you, you're far more foolish than your brother could ever be._

_I loved you the very first day you told me that you loved me. I loved you the day I ran from Klaus, terrified of what he was and what he would do to me. I loved you the day you manipulated me into this hundred-year debt, I loved you every day following that, and even after all of this, I love you now._

_But you stole something from me, and I will not sit back and let him slip through my fingers again. I will not make the same mistakes with him again._

_I'm taking the last rose you gave me tonight as a memento of this affair. I think I deserve it in some way, and furthermore, I'd like to think that I still possess some very small part of your heart. You can take comfort in the fact that you possess a small part of mine. Take my advice, Elijah, and find a woman who truly loves you—and _**only **_you—and give her the remaining ninety-nine._

_Always and Forever,_

_Elena_

**_Cause what I need to know is…_**

**_Does she love me?_**

**…**

**_Oh, I need to know._**

* * *

**Notes: **First off, if you liked the premise of the song, please check out the band 'A Lion Named Roar'-extremely underrated and so full of potential, they're really worth a listen.

Secondly, I know that parts of this story may seem to have been glazed over a bit, especially the details behind Stefan & Elena's relationship prior to the hundred year agreement. Trust me, I have many plans for them in the upcoming sequel, and all will be unfolded in time. This just wasn't the right time, but it'll come.

Thank you all so much for reading, I'm really quite proud of this one and I wrote this for about five hours tonight to finish the second half because I was just so tired of staring at it unfinished in my documents.

Feedback, questions, reviews, constructive criticism and anything of the like are always so wonderful, so please, if you have the time, they go such a long way.

**Notes about the Sequel: **As soon as it's finished, the sequel to this, 'Selective Oblivion', will be posted. Its beginning chapters will detail Damon coming across Katherine Gilbert at a high school party (where else do those crazy MF kids throw parties but in the cemetery, right?) after following a lead to Rebekah Mikaelson because he swore to enact vengeance on the entire Mikaelson Family for the events of 45 years prior that resulted in his brother being killed. But don't stress, nothing is at it seems and poor Damon is just very out of the loop. ;)

Until next time. :)


End file.
